We are the 99%. The footmen. The footwomen. The cowboys and centaurs. The winged. The serpentine and the tentacled.
The believers. The knowers. The thinkers, the drinkers, the stupors and stumblers. The nearsighted, farsighted, the foresighted, and those shot on sight.
The carnivores. The omnivores. The steam-powered, the diesel-powered, the gas-guzzling guys and gals. The fusion-powered patriots. The stardrinkers on high.
The stars and celebrities. The gods and titans. The abominations and ethereal beauties. Lockstep lovelies and things so hideous reality renders them invisible: a protest in your closet after the lights go out.
The light. The dark. The unknown and the scientific method. Anthropomorphism anthropomorphized into an old wizard who understands you. He brings a glass of water, which is sentient, but willing to martyr itself to the cause.
The nightstand. The bed. The bent elbow resting on a middle school desk. The long, lonely commute. The repetitive day out and the slow night in. The flickering instances on a date when threads of conversation wither, not yet deceased. These are the battlegrounds of the 99%.